


Tired and Emotional

by Kroki_Refur



Series: Sensory Deprivation [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-20
Updated: 2006-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kroki_Refur/pseuds/Kroki_Refur
Summary: Since when has a poltergeist ever caused this much trouble?
Series: Sensory Deprivation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014300
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

“Are you gonna eat that?”  
  
Dean looked up from his rapidly-cooling steak to see his brother looking at him hopefully across the table. He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. You’re still hungry?” He felt the lining of his own stomach creak in protest at the amount of food he’d managed to stuff into it that day. _And it was only two in the afternoon._  
  
Sam’s eyes flicked down to the steak and back up to Dean. He had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Seriously, man, it’s amazing. You should eat it,” he offered. Dean’s plate wobbled slightly and moved an inch towards Sam.  
  
Dean fought off a grin and slouched back in his seat. “Really,” he said. “ _I_ should eat it?” Sam’s embarrassment was growing, and that was always entertaining.  
  
Sam flushed and looked away. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to... you know.” The plate wobbled again, and Sam looked mortified.  
  
Dean let the grin break through. Much as he kind of wanted to, he didn’t have the heart to torture his brother today. In a couple of days, he knew the novelty of having tastebuds again would have worn off. _And then if you come after my steak with your freakish powers, I’ll kick your ass, Sammy boy._ Silently, he pushed the plate the rest of the way across the table. Sam looked at it, and then gave Dean a quick glance as if to make sure. Seeing the smile on his brother’s face, he beamed and started eating.  
  
Dean resisted manfully for as long as he could manage, which was about thirty seconds. Then his magnanimity gave out.  
  
“You know, that’s actually pretty gross.”  
  
Sam looked up, frozen in mid-chew. He swallowed. “What is?”  
  
“Watching you eat your way through the agricultural surplus of three counties.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the steak.  
  
“I mean it, man. I bet you haven’t even considered what the poor families of Fremont are gonna eat in the long, cold winter once you’ve chowed down on their entire dairy herd.”  
  
Sam made a noise through a mouthful of steak that sounded like _shut up_. Possibly _shut up, asshole._  
  
Dean sighed. “You know your problem, Sam? You have no appreciation for rural economics.” Then he was distracted by the arrival of the unbelievably hot waitress, who asked them if they’d like anything else. Dean started to say no, but was suddenly aware of a pair of eyes watching him intently from the other side of the table. He sighed. _Yup, not every day you get your tastebuds back. Not every day your stomach explodes, either_.  
  
He smiled brightly at the waitress. “What do you have for dessert?”  
  
\----  
  
Dean wanted to leave Fremont, Minnesota pretty much more than he’d ever wanted to leave anywhere. The thing in the woods was gone, but the woods themselves were still there, oppressive and shrouded in mist, the soil heavy with the weight of rotted leaves. Since the night they had killed the creature, the weather had turned foggy again, and Dean swore he hadn’t seen real sunlight once in the week since. Of course, it was all sunshine and goddamn puppies for Sam, who, with the enthusiasm of the born-again, drank in the murky, pathetic view like it was a topless beach in Honolulu.  
  
“God, Dean, have you ever noticed how many colours there are in raindrops?” Sam asked suddenly, staring at a branch beaded with water.  
  
_You have_ got _to be kidding me_. “Are you drunk?”  
  
Sam looked up, looked surprised, and then looked embarrassed. _This is getting to be something of a habit, Sammy boy_. “Uh, um. No.”  
  
Dean snorted. Much as he appreciated his brother’s new-found enthusiasm for all things sensory, he was not about to indulge it to that degree. “Get in the car.”  
  
“So where are we going?” Sam asked once he was settled in the passenger seat of the Impala.  
  
“Away,” said Dean, and turned on the music.  
  
\----  
  
Dean drove south, because he thought that the further south he went, the less likely it was to be misty and damp, and even if it was, it probably wouldn’t be so cold. The miles fell away beneath the wheels, the endless blacktop that never seemed to change, so that it seemed almost like the car was stationary and the scenery moved around it. The journey was accompanied by a gradual lightening of the air, and by Sam humming along to _Master of Puppets_.  
  
Which, when Dean thought about, was kind of weird.  
  
_Whatever, maybe the thing in the woods gave him some good taste as well as just... taste._ Dean grinned to himself. That joke was never going to get old.  
  
Two hundred miles later, Dean had stopped grinning. Twenty miles after that, he leaned forward and shut off the stereo. Sam, who had been staring out of the window, looked round in surprise, but didn’t say anything.  
  
Ten minutes later, he started humming again.  
  
Dean cursed and pulled over in a screech of tires, turning to glare at his brother. Sam looked back, all innocence. “Dude, what?”  
  
“You were humming.”  
  
Sam frowned. “So?”  
  
Dean clenched his teeth. “You were humming _Metallica_.”  
  
“Was I?” Sam seemed to think about this, then shrugged. “Well, I guess they’ve got a couple of good songs.”  
  
“Dude.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You just hummed three whole albums. And by the way, _Creeping Death_ does _not_ benefit from an acoustic rendition.”  
  
Sam looked slightly hurt. “Hey, it’s your music. What’s your problem, anyway?”  
  
What was his problem? To be honest, Dean wasn’t really sure. “It’s just... Dude, _humming_.”  
  
“I’m just happy, that’s all.”  
  
And there it was, right there. “Well that’s freakin weird for a start.”  
  
Sam froze and stared at him. “What did you say?”  
  
Dean wished he hadn’t said anything now, but it was too late to take it back. “Nothing.” He started the engine again.  
  
“I’m serious, Dean, what did you say?” Sam sounded calm, in a kind of I’m-just-about-to-eat-your-face way.  
  
Dean sighed. “It’s just not like you is all. It’s no big deal.”  
  
Sam glowered. “You don’t want me to be happy?”  
  
“I didn’t... Look, forget I said anything, OK?”  
  
Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Dean raised a hand, not taking his eyes off the road. “I mean it, Sam. I’m not going to get into this with you now.” He eyed the stereo longingly: normally at this point in an argument he would put it on full blast to cut off any further protests. Not really an option this time.  
  
Sam subsided, slouching in his seat and glaring at the road ahead. After a long, tense silence, he started, very deliberately, to hum _Ride the Lightning_.  
  
To a _jazz_ beat.  
  
_Oh, that’s it. We are_ so _getting off the road at the next town._  
  
\----  
  
“Find anything?” Dean asked, dropping down into the seat opposite Sam and handing him a coffee.  
  
“Mmm,” Sam said, still scanning the paper he had in front of him. He took a swig from his cup. “Good coffee.”  
  
“Yeah, if you like tar,” Dean replied. Sam didn’t seem to notice.  
  
“Poltergeist,” he said, handing the paper over to his brother. Dean skimmed the article. Renovations of an old house – objects moving by themselves – mysterious accidents. Textbook case.  
  
“OK, where is it?” he asked.  
  
“Madison Falls. Next town over. Ten miles, give or take.”  
  
Dean watched Sam out of the corner of his eye. His brother was acting kind of terse, but that was pretty normal given the argument they’d had. _At least he stopped with the goddamn humming_. But Dean felt a sense of shame, because if Sam really _had_ just been happy, then somehow he had managed to ruin it.  
  
“So we going or what?”  
  
Dean let his reflections slip away. They would wait for another time. “Sure. Let’s do this thing.”  
  
\----  
  
Madison Falls turned out to be not so much a town as handful of houses scattered through a stretch of farmland. It was the sort of place where the neighbours all knew each other and people left their back doors unlocked at night. Which was pretty idiotic, because really, this was the kind of territory that things in the dark loved the most. Jeez, did _nobody_ watch horror movies any more?  
  
There was also no motel, and by the time they found one several miles up the road, twilight had settled over the rural landscape, softening edges and masking danger. Poltergeist hunting was going to have to wait till morning.  
  
Dean turned off the engine of the Impala and took a deep breath. Sam and he were brothers, and they had always argued, and the arguments were usually forgotten after a few miles and a beer or two. This one was different though; Dean felt like the atmosphere had changed, become slightly heavier, it seemed to cling to him like clay. They needed to clear the air, but Dean didn’t know how to start.  
  
“Hey, Dean?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“It’s OK.”  
  
Dean looked over at his brother, who was watching him with that look on his face, the solemn, cautious look that made him look like he was nine years old again. Dean felt the urge to ask him what he was talking about, to deny that he had even noticed that anything was wrong. But he didn’t, he just held Sam’s gaze until the younger man looked away.  
  
“It just feels so good, you know. To be normal again.” Sam said softly. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”  
  
Dean almost laughed. Things had to be pretty bad if his brother being happy for a few hours was enough to freak him out. Oh yeah, and  
  
“Sam, you are about as far from _normal_ as the love-child of Michael Jackson and Liza Minelli. Now get out there and get us a room.”  
  
Sam opened the door and unfolded himself out of the car, but he shot Dean a grin as he left, and Dean knew they were OK again. _And I didn’t even have to say a word._  
  
\----  
  
A morning’s research informed them that nothing bad had happened in Madison Falls in the last thirty years. No-one had been kidnapped, no-one had been killed, no-one had even got a freakin parking ticket. But thirty-two years before, a drifter had passed through town on his way from nothing to nowhere, and a teenage girl had disappeared. The state police had caught the guy before he crossed over into Nebraska, but the girl’s body had never been found, and he had never told anyone where it was.  
  
“Yeah, OK,” Dean said, “but she lived clear across town.” _Which in this town wasn’t saying much_. “Why would she be haunting that house?”  
  
Sam looked up from his laptop, his grin slightly blue in the glow. “Guess when the house was built?”  
  
“Wait, you’re saying he dumped the body at the construction site?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “No-one’s ever going to look under a house.”  
  
Dean was silent for a moment, thinking things through. “Great,” he said finally. “Let’s go.”  
  
“Uh, Dean?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“We’re gonna need a pick-axe.”  
  
Dean looked at Sam quizzically, and Sam shrugged. “Lot of basements have concrete floors,” he explained.  
  
Dean sighed. _Whatever happened to good old-fashioned graveyards?_  
  
\----  
  
“OK,” Sam said, dropping back into the passenger seat of the Impala. “Looks like the family went away for a while after the little boy fell down the stairs. The place is empty.”  
  
Dean looked out at the house. “Family away, nearest neighbours out of ear-shot,” he said. “This is gonna be the easiest job ever.”  
  
Sam snorted. “Yeah, if digging up a concrete floor in a haunted house is your idea of easy.”  
  
“Hey, don’t knock it, Sammy boy,” Dean said, opening the car door. “Maybe Casper won’t even show.”  
  
“It’s _Sam_ ,” said Sam, and followed him.  
  
Inside the house it was quiet, though it was obvious that it had not always been so. Furniture lay overturned on the living room carpet, the kitchen was liberally scattered with cutlery and fragments of ceramics, and a large mirror lay smashed on the floor of the hall. Dean stirred the shards of glass with his toe. “Poltergeists are the worst house-guests,” he observed.  
  
Sam grunted and headed for the door to the basement.  
  
“I mean, they leave wet towels all over the bathroom floor...”  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“They drink all the OJ and forget to tell you...”  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“They try to stab you in the head...”  
  
“ _Dean_.”  
  
“What?” Dean stopped at the top of the staircase. Sam was halfway down, turning on his flashlight. Dean reached for the light switch, flipped it a couple of times. Nothing. _Great. So much for actually getting to do the haunted house thing in the daylight for once._  
  
“Something’s here,” said Sam.  
  
Dean flipped on his flashlight and readied his shotgun. “You see something?”  
  
Sam shook his head. “I’ve just got this feeling.”  
  
Dean checked the shotgun again, and followed his brother to the bottom of the stairs.  
  
The basement was big, but looked pretty ordinary in the wavering beams of the flashlights. A work bench, a few pieces of discarded wood, a washing machine, a row of tools hanging on the wall... _Huh_ , Dean thought, eyeing the latter nervously. _That could be a problem._ “Sam?”  
  
Sam was looking around carefully. He shook his head. “I think it’s gone.”  
  
Dean raised an eyebrow. “That some freaky sixth sense thing? Or are we up to seven now?”  
  
“I don’t know. Something was just _wrong_.”  
  
Dean scanned the basement again. “Well, let’s make it right.” He slung the pick-axe off his shoulder and tossed it to Sam. “Time’s a-wastin, college boy.”  
  
\----  
  
They took turns, one digging and the other holding the flashlight and the shotgun. The concrete was loose and kind of crumbly, which suited Dean very well, since they had no clue where under the floor the body was buried, and anything that made the job go faster was good with him. When he was on his third round of keeping watch, and they had destroyed half of the floor, he began to relax, thinking maybe the poltergeist really wouldn’t show. _Yeah, easiest job ever._  
  
That was, until Sam stopped digging suddenly and said _Dean_ , and before he could respond Dean felt something strike him in the chest, and he flew backwards through the air and crashed into the wall, the impact jarring what felt like every bone in his body. The shotgun jolted out of his nerveless fingers and clattered onto the floor, where it slid to the opposite corner of the room as if someone was pushing it.  
  
Sam had already dropped the pick-axe and was headed for the gun when Dean struggled to his feet. He started forward too, but a short, thick piece of wood rose from the floor and smacked him hard in the face. Pain shot through his jaw, and he dropped to the ground again, looking for something to defend himself with.  
  
The shotgun skittered out of Sam’s reach and flew across to the other side of the room. Sam cursed and changed trajectory. That was the least of Dean’s worries right now though, because the pick-axe had just risen from the ground and was headed his way. He ducked behind the workbench, going through his pockets for the carton of salt he kept there. A moment later, he looked up to see the pick-axe hanging above him and swinging back. There was no time, no time.  
  
And then he heard Sam yell his name, and the pick-axe suddenly flung itself against the wall, and the shotgun flew out of the corner and into Sam’s hand. There was a loud report, and Dean felt particles of hot salt falling into his hair.  
  
Sam was beside him in an instant, looking concerned. “You OK?” he asked. “You’re bleeding.”  
  
Dean cleared his throat and wiped the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. “What’d I tell you,” he said, grinning and feeling his ribs to see if they were broken. “Easiest job ever.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes and went to retrieve the pick-axe. “Let’s just get this over with.”  
  
Dean clambered to his feet, supporting himself for a moment against the bench. He wasn’t too badly off, he decided, but some of the bruises would take a little while to fade. “You know, that was pretty freakin cool,” he pointed out. “These new superpowers of yours are kinda handy. Should have sent you off into the woods on your own years ago, could have saved us all a lot of bruises.” He picked up the flashlight from where he had dropped it on the floor.  
  
Sam didn’t say anything.  
  
\----  
  
When Dean woke up, it was dark and quiet, except for the sound of Sam breathing evenly in the next bed. There was nothing alarming going on, nothing out of the ordinary. But here he was, awake, with his hand under his pillow clutching the handle of his hunting knife. _Something_ must have woken him up.  
  
He sat up carefully, scanning the motel room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He couldn’t see anything strange, but the room seemed somehow too quiet, the silence pressing on his eardrums and making the hairs stand up on the back of his hands. He brought the knife out in front of him and thought about whether he should wake Sam.  
  
He heard an odd sort of shuffling noise, and a moment later something smashed against the wall above his head, and he covered his face with his arms as a shower of glass rained down. There was a second crash moments after the first, and Dean rolled off the bed and onto the floor, thinking fast. _Goddamn poltergeist. What, isn’t salting and burning enough for you people any more?_ Time to wake Sam.  
  
“Sam,” he muttered, reaching up to tug on his brother’s arm. Sam muttered something and turned over. A tea cup exploded overhead, and Dean ducked. “Sam,” he said, louder now. _Jesus, Sammy, when has it ever been this hard to wake you up?_  
  
But Sam was still sleeping soundly, and Dean was not about to put his head up above the parapet to give him a proper shake. The damn ghost seemed to be gunning for him, which was good, because that meant it was leaving his brother alone.  
  
Except that he was next to his brother, and that was going to cause some problems.  
  
Dean dropped his knife ( _not much use on a ghost anyway_ ) and crawled under his bed towards the door. The shotguns were locked in the back of the car, which was damn stupid and shouldn’t have happened, but there was no use crying over it now. Everything seemed to have gone quiet, and he was pretty sure the ghost was waiting for him to show himself again. Well, it wouldn’t have to wait long.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he raced the last few feet to the door, grabbing the handle and pulling.  
  
Nothing happened. The door was stuck fast. _Damn_.  
  
Dean turned, and saw something that made him forget all thoughts of shotguns and doors. Every loose item in the motel room, with the exception of the beds, was hanging about five feet off the floor, rotating slowly. And Sam was lying in the middle of it all, helpless and asleep.  
  
As Dean watched, a chair went hurtling across the room and bounced off the wall, narrowly missing Sam’s bed on the rebound. That was all he needed to see, and there was only one thing left to do now. He flung himself across the room, bounding over his own bed, and landed, hard, on top of his brother, covering Sam’s head with his arms and feeling his bruised ribs complain at the impact.  
  
All the air went out of Sam in a whoosh, and he grunted and opened his eyes. “Dean?” Everything in the room crashed to the floor as if some cosmic puppet master had just cut all the strings.  
  
Sam was looking up at him, a sheen of sweat on his face. “Dean? What’s going on?”  
  
Dean stared at him, then looked around at the devastation that had been their motel room. A disturbing thought was forming in his mind. “Sam, did you just have a nightmare?”  
  
Sam shook his head as if to clear the sleep away. “What? Dean, why are you on top of me?”  
  
Dean cleared his throat and dragged himself off Sam. “Just answer the question.”  
  
“Uh.” Sam sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah, I guess so.” He paused, taking in the destruction surrounding him. “What happened?”  
  
Dean looked from his brother’s confused face to the broken and twisted furniture. _Oh, this is_ so _not good._


	2. Chapter 2

“You think _I_ did this?”  
  
Dean sighed and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. It was four-thirty in the morning, and Sam was doing his best to pace around the wasteland formerly known as Room 12.  
  
“You do, don’t you? You seriously think I did this.”  
  
Dean leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and trying to think of something to say that would reassure his brother. The problem was, the only thing that came into his head was _this is bad. This is really, really bad._ And he was pretty sure that was not going to help the situation.  
  
“No way,” Sam was muttering. “No way did I do this. I couldn’t have done this.”  
  
“Look, Sammy-” Dean started, and Sam whirled on him, eyes flashing.  
  
“It’s _Sam_. _Jesus_ , Dean, how many freakin times do I have to tell you that?”  
  
“Dude, chill,” Dean said. “It’s not that big of a deal.”  
  
Sam was looking more and more furious. “Not a big _deal_?” he yelled, and a lamp that Dean had righted fell off the night table and crashed to the floor. “You could have been killed!”  
  
Dean jumped to his feet, grabbing his brother’s shoulders. “I mean it, man. You’ve got to calm down. Unless you want the furniture to go postal on us again.”  
  
Sam eyes flicked nervously round the room and returned to Dean’s. He clenched his jaw. Dean nodded, satisfied. “OK, breathe slow. Why don’t you sit down.”  
  
They sat side by side on the bed, and Dean listened as Sam slowly got his breathing under control. Listening to his deep breaths was oddly hypnotic, and Dean was more than happy to concentrate on that and not think about the fears that prowled through his brain. After a long silence, Sam let out a shuddering sigh.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Yeah?” Dean turned to look at his brother, but Sam looked away.   
  
“You really could have been killed, you know. I... I could have killed you.”  
  
Dean put his arm round Sam’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault.”  
  
Sam closed his eyes for a moment, and then flicked a glance over at the many tiny cuts that peppered Dean’s forearm. “Does that hurt?”  
  
“This?” Dean snorted. “I’ve gotten in worse fights with five-year-old girls.” In truth, the thin, sharp wounds were sore as hell, like glass cuts always were, but there was no way he was letting on.  
  
When the silence stretched too thin, Dean broke it. “I meant what I said, you know,” he started. “This really isn’t that big of a deal.” _You were lying then, and you’re lying now_.  
  
“I have potentially lethal telekinesis that I can’t control,” Sam said tiredly. “How is that not a big deal.”  
  
Dean shrugged. “You’ll learn. You’ve only had this extra value-added shining for two days. Bound to be a few bumps along the way. Plus, I’m sure there’s some New Age mumbo-jumbo crap that’ll help you out. You know, crystals and meditation or whatever.”  
  
Sam shot him a glance, looking about as convinced as Dean was by that argument. “And until then, don’t get scared or angry, right?” He didn’t say what they were both thinking: _and don’t go to sleep._  
  
Dean shifted slightly. “Right. Think happy thoughts. I’ll even let you sing along to Metallica.”   
  
Sam sighed, running his hand through his hair. “You’re really not freaked out by this?”  
  
Dean remembered the first time Sam had asked him that question, or one very similar. His answer now was not going to be any more honest than it had been then. “No way,” he said, going for nonchalant though it came out more like constipated. “The only thing I’m freaked by is this mess, and the fact that we’d better get the hell out of Dodge before someone wants us to pay for it. Get your stuff.”  
  
He watched as Sam moved about the room, picking up his scattered possessions and shoving them into his bag. His brother looked the same; tired and worried, but still Sam. But somewhere in him was something different, something Dean couldn’t understand, couldn’t help him with, something dangerous that Sam had to go through on his own. Hell, yeah, he was freaked out. And, after a respite of only a few days, Dean felt a sense of helplessness descend on him once again like a curse.  
  
\----  
  
They skipped town before dawn, and made sure they were several hours from Madison Falls before they stopped for coffee. Neither of them had said much on the journey, Dean gripping the steering wheel tighter than he needed to and feeling his thoughts circling endlessly around the image of suspended motel-room furniture, Sam staring at the road, his eyes open wide as if that could keep sleep away. Dean had put the stereo on, but Sam hadn’t hummed.  
  
As soon as Sam had disappeared through the door of the gas station, Dean was on the phone. It was answered on the first ring, and before he could speak, a woman’s voice said “Dean, honey, I’ve been waiting for you to call.”  
  
Dean didn’t bother to ask how she knew it was him. “Then you know what’s happened?”  
  
He could almost hear Missouri shaking her head. “No, sweetheart, just that something’s wrong. You tell me what it is, now.”  
  
Dean covered the salient points as quickly as he could, and afterwards Missouri’s voice was gentle and comforting.  
  
“I’d been hoping Sam’s full powers would come out gradually, but I guess someone had a different plan for him. Well, honey, you bring him on over to me and I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
Dean felt relief wash through him. “Then you can help him?”  
  
“No promises, Dean. But your brother has a strong will, I think he can learn to deal with this.”  
  
Dean saw Sam step out of the gas station. “OK, I’ve gotta go. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” He shut the phone and pocketed it, wondering if his brother had seen. Not that it was a secret, and he was going to have to tell him about it in a minute anyway. So why did it make him so nervous?  
  
“Hey, man,” Sam said, handing him his coffee as he clambered out of the car. “You look like crap. What’s wrong?”  
  
Dean occupied himself with the cup, not catching Sam’s eye. _Come on, Dean, this is ridiculous. You’re only trying to help him_. He was trying to think of a snappy comeback, something to distract Sam, when the left rear tail-light of the next car over exploded.  
  
Dean was instantly focussed, and what he focussed on made his stomach lurch. Sam was staring at him without seeming to see him, mouth slightly open, a zoned expression on his face like he had fallen asleep on his feet. “Sam,” Dean said, snapping his fingers in front of Sam’s face. “Wake up.”  
  
Sam made no response, only swaying slightly on his feet. Dean grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, and the other tail-light of the car blew outwards in a shower of plastic. And Dean was suddenly very aware of where he was, because OK, a motel room was full of heavy furniture, which was pretty dangerous, but this was a gas station, and that meant there were cars (his _car_ ) and, more importantly, there were freakin _gas pumps_ , and God knew what Sam could do to those with his mind. So he did the only thing he could think of: he hauled off and punched his brother in the face.  
  
“Jesus,” Sam exclaimed, staggering backwards and covering his nose with both hands, his coffee cup flying across the forecourt. “God, Dean, what the hell was that for?”  
  
Dean shook his hand, flexing the knuckles. “Sorry, man,” he offered. “Couldn’t be helped.”  
  
“Fuck, I think you broke my nose,” Sam said, sounding like he had a heavy cold.  
  
“I think you broke my hand,” Dean countered, knowing he hadn’t hit Sam with that much force. “When did your face get so damn _hard_?”  
  
Sam glared at him and removed his hands from his nose, wiping at the blood that streamed over his upper lip. Dean felt a pang of guilt: maybe he had hit Sammy harder than he’d intended. He had other things to worry about now though. “Since when do you fall asleep with your eyes open, Sam?”  
  
Sam looked disgusted. “I was having a vision, genius.”  
  
“Oh.” Dean frowned in surprise. “But you didn’t have a headache.”  
  
Sam looked surprised too, like he hadn’t even thought of that. “No,” he admitted. After a moment, he added, “I guess that’s a good thing, right? Something good that’s come out of this.”  
  
Dean waited before he answered, because he wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not, but he did know that it cranked the nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach up a notch. No reason Sam had to know that, though. “Yeah, it’s good, whatever.” He turned, reaching for the door of the Impala. “Time to get moving.”  
  
“Don’t you even want to know where we’re going?” Sam asked behind him, and Dean knew that the moment had come.  
  
“We’re going to Lawrence,” he said, without looking back.  
  
“Lawrence?” Dean could hear the confusion in Sam’s voice, and knew that there was a danger it might turn into something else. He was going to have to face up to this if he wanted to avoid the whole gas station going sky-high. He took a breath and turned.  
  
“I called Missouri,” he said. “She said she could help you.”  
  
Sam stared at him, open-mouthed, but there was no anger in his face, only astonishment. “But Dean, my vision...”  
  
“It can wait.” That was the least of their worries right now.  
  
“No, no it can’t. People could _die_.”  
  
“Yeah, Sam, and your head could explode.” _Or worse, this damn gas station_.  
  
Sam shook his head stubbornly, and Dean knew that look, knew that there was a good chance he might not win this fight. “I can control it for a couple of days. Come on, Dean, you know I only have visions when they’re connected to us, to the demon. This could be really important, and you think we should be off learning meditation techniques?”   
  
Dean thought about it. Sam’s new abilities were definitely dangerous, and something needed to be done, fast. On the other hand, Sam was right: if he had had a vision, it must have something to do with what they’d been chasing for twenty-three years. And if they left it long enough for Sam to take a self-help course in psychic damage control, God knew what could happen. He sighed. “Where is it?”  
  
Sam didn’t need to ask what he meant. “Drayton, near Cleveland.”  
  
Dean gaped. “But that’s six hundred miles away.” _Six hundred miles in the wrong direction_.  
  
Sam shrugged, swiping at the blood that was still trickling out of his nose. “Drive fast.”  
  
As they got in the car, Dean wanted to ask Sam how he knew where his vision had taken place. But he didn’t, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.  
  
\----  
  
Dean watched as Sam’s eyelids drooped and then closed. With a sigh, he reached over to gently shake his brother by the shoulder. Sam’s eyes shot open immediately, and he shook his head like a dog. “Sorry,” he muttered.  
  
Dean turned his eyes back to the road. “You need another coffee? There’s a gas station in fifteen.”  
  
Sam shook his head again, tiredly this time. “I’m OK.”  
  
Dean nodded, but mentally made a note to stop at the gas station anyway. He had thought about just letting Sam fall asleep—after all, he could wake him if it seemed like he was having a nightmare—but the car was doing sixty with a half-full tank of gas, and Dean didn’t want to think about what whatever it was that lurked in Sam’s brain could do if it was let loose on that. It was only another hour to Drayton, and they had done OK so far.  
  
But _so far_ was fourteen hours of driving on three hours of sleep, and Dean had to admit that he wasn’t feeling particularly alert himself right then.   
  
“Do you know what to look for when we get there, Sam?” he asked, more to keep them both on the case than out of any sense of curiosity. Sam had already told him his vision three times— _a werewolf and a little girl. That’s all_ —and all Dean was really interested in looking for was a cheap motel where the mattresses weren’t too lumpy and the furniture didn’t move by itself.  
  
“I’ll know it when I see it.”  
  
And Dean glanced over at Sam and felt a weird creeping feeling at the look of stony determination on his younger brother’s face. He was so sure of what he had to do. That confidence was just another thing that Sam had that Dean couldn’t understand.  
  
\----  
  
They pulled into Drayton shortly before dusk on the night before the full moon, and by then Dean had come up with a plan for how they could sleep. They would take it in shifts: Sam would sleep for an hour while Dean watched in case of nightmares, and Dean would sleep for an hour while Sam did whatever it was that Sam did when he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping. It sounded like a good plan, like it would work, but all the same Dean collected everything small enough to carry from the motel room before they started and locked it all in the trunk of his car, along with all their weapons. It felt weird, not even having a knife to protect himself with, like he was naked, but in the end they were safer without them.   
  
The plan worked great until it was Dean’s turn to sleep, and he sank down into an exhausted, dreamless darkness at eleven and woke up at four in the morning with his hand groping at empty space under his pillow to find the room pitch black.  
  
He sat up sharply. “Sam?”  
  
“Yeah,” came Sam’s voice from the corner of the room. As Dean’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realised he could just make out the outline of his brother’s head against the faint light that filtered in through the blinds. It seemed to be bowed, concentrating on something.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Reading,” Sam said. “Listen, man, I’m sorry I didn’t wake you. I just didn’t feel too sleepy.”  
  
“Reading?”  
  
“Yeah, reading,” Sam said, his voice sounding surprised, though of course Dean couldn’t see his expression _because it’s really freakin dark_.  
  
“In the dark?”  
  
Sam’s silhouette shifted slightly. “It’s not that dark. Are you OK? You’re not mad at me for not waking you...”  
  
“Never mind that now,” Dean said, shooting upright. He flipped on the lights, and there, sure enough, was Sam with a book on his lap, blinking slightly at the sudden illumination. “What do you mean you’re _reading_?”   
  
Dean snatched up the book, glaring at it, and Sam stared at him in astonishment. “Christ, Dean, what’s your problem?”   
  
Dean ignored him. The book seemed perfectly ordinary, with normal sized type in ink that didn’t appear to glow in the dark. He flipped forward a few pages from where Sam had got to, feeling the knot of nervousness jangling again in his stomach and disturbing thoughts surfacing in his mind, scanned a passage, then flipped the lights off again.  
  
“Read this,” he commanded, turning the book in Sam’s direction.  
  
“What is this, a test?” Sam groused. “I know you’re not a morning person, Dean, but this is ridiculous.”  
  
“Just read it,” Dean said, in a tone that brooked no argument.  
  
Sam sighed. “‘They were about to withdraw for a while into the charitable shade of a tree in the fence when Coggan saw a figure in a blue coat and brass buttons running to them across a field,’” he intoned in a sarcastic monotone. “Should I go on?”  
  
Dean swallowed. Either Sam had memorised the damn book, which was unlikely because it was pretty long and looked damn boring, or...  
  
“You’re reading in the dark.”  
  
“Dean, seriously. It’s not that dark.”  
  
“No, Sam, it is. It’s _dark_.”  
  
There was a long pause, during which Dean considered switching the light back on but couldn’t quite bear the thought of seeing the expression on his brother’s face, and then Sam said, “Oh.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Another pause. Dean found himself sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed, still clutching the damn book. _What is going on with you Sammy?_   
  
After an age, Sam shifted in the darkness, and said, “Do you think this is because of what happened in Fremont?”  
  
“What else could it be?”  
  
Sam took a breath. “Do you think it’s going to happen to my other senses as well?”  
  
Dean remembered three days of Sam’s enthusiasm over food and drink that had seemed to Dean bland at best. Even today, with all the strain of... everything, Sam had drunk his coffee like it was ten-year-old single malt. “I think it already is,” he said quietly.  
  
“Oh,” said Sam again.  
  
That was really all there was to say.  
  
\----  
  
In the light of day, as they went about their research, things didn’t seem so bad. Sam was quiet and withdrawn, but that wasn’t an unusual state of affairs. Nothing had been thrown at Dean’s head for over twenty-four hours, which he considered a definite improvement, and to be honest, what was so bad about being able to see in the dark and enjoying the shitty diet of fast food that their lifestyle required? OK, maybe it meant an early death from cholesterol, but it would be a lot less early than most of the deaths that Dean had ever envisaged for himself. In any case, sharpened senses were a lot less weird than the powers that Sam had been demonstrating recently. Still, despite all the reassurances he listed to himself, the ugly feeling in his stomach didn’t go away.  
  
The werewolf would strike in a thicket at the edge of town, Sam had declared after they had driven around for a while to see if anything looked familiar. It was pretty much the easiest research Dean had ever had to do, and he reminded himself again that Sam’s new abilities could be an invaluable tool in the hunt. But after they had chased the girl away and the werewolf, alerted to their presence by their shouted warning, had raced off among the trees, Dean was not quite so pleased to hear his brother sniff the air and say _it went this way_.  
  
“Dude,” he said. “You can smell that damn thing?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “It reeks,” he said.  
  
“That’s just gross.”  
  
Sam’s face was unreadable in the moonlight. “Yeah. It really is.”  
  
The hunt was over fast, the werewolf not standing a chance against the combination of preternatural tracking powers and silver bullets. And in the car, shortly after they had pulled away from the motel on their way to Lawrence, Dean put into words the question that had been bugging him the whole time.  
  
“What about the demon?”  
  
“What?” Sam asked, but his innocence was unconvincing. Dean knew he had been asking himself the same thing.  
  
“The demon, Sam. You only have visions when it has something to do with the demon. Not some two-bit werewolf.”  
  
Sam shrugged, looking away, out of the window at the verge rolling away beside them. “I guess it’s different now.”  
  
“So, what, you’re just going to have visions of every Tom, Dick and Spooky? That sounds kind of excessive.”  
  
“Two-bit or not, we saved that girl’s life.”  
  
There was no arguing with that. But all the same, Dean felt flat. He had agreed to wait before going to Lawrence only because he had thought the demon might be involved. Now it seemed like nothing was certain any more.  
  
They were only forty miles closer to Lawrence when Dean heard Sam make a weird noise in his throat, and looked over to see his brother’s eyes glazed and staring at nothing. Cursing, Dean pulled the car over sharply onto the side of the road. At least that was one danger mitigated. He wondered if he should pull Sam out of the car in case it exploded, but before he had time to put the thought into action, Sam blinked and Dean knew it was over. Except it wasn’t, because twin trails of blood leaked out of Sam’s nose onto his upper lip, and Dean suddenly knew that he hadn’t hit Sam that hard the day before, it had been nothing but a tap, really, and if he hadn’t done it in the first place then he might have realised sooner that something was wrong.  
  
Sam put his fingers up to his nose, pulled them away, inspected them. “Dude, did you hit me again?”  
  
Dean shook his head, not trusting his voice.   
  
“Huh,” said Sam.  
  
Dean waited until he felt the twisting in his stomach subside a little, and cleared his throat, starting the engine again. “Sam, we need to do something about this.”  
  
“I know,” Sam said. “I think it was a rawhead, in Fredericksville, Kentucky.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” Dean said. “I mean we have to do something about _this_.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of Sam’s nose, and the tissue he was currently using to try and staunch it.  
  
“Oh.” A pause. “What for?”  
  
Dean almost drove off the road. “What _for_? Sam, you’re turning into freakin _superman_ , except even he couldn’t chop vegetables from the other side of the room. This is just totally off.”  
  
“Yeah, but,” Sam said, leaning his head back and pressing his tissue to his nose, “nothing that’s happened so far has been really _bad_ , has it? I mean, I know I need to get the telekinesis under control, but I’ve been doing OK at that, and everything else is just an extra advantage, right?”  
  
“You’re bleeding, college boy. You don’t consider that bad?”  
  
“Yeah, OK, but it doesn’t hurt. People get nosebleeds all the time, it’s nothing to worry about.”  
  
“People get nosebleeds from doing too much coke, Sam, not from seeing the future. Are you seriously trying to tell me you think this is normal?”  
  
“Wasn’t it you who was just telling me the other day how very normal I wasn’t?” Sam asked, and then yelped and turned in his seat. “Hey! You missed our turn!”  
  
“No I didn’t,” Dean said, glaring straight ahead at the road.   
  
“Yeah, you totally did, man. Kentucky’s that way.”  
  
“We’re not going to Kentucky. We’re going to Lawrence.”  
  
Sam stilled. “I don’t need to go to Lawrence, Dean. I need to go to Fredericksville. People are in danger.”  
  
Dean didn’t answer. _Don’t give me that line again, Sammy. I know people are in danger._ You’re _in danger._  
  
“Dean,” said Sam again, his voice calm and soft as if he was trying to comfort a crying child. “I can handle this by myself. I haven’t moved anything by accident since the gas station. I don’t need Missouri’s help just yet. We can go to Lawrence after Fredericksville.”  
  
 _Oh yeah? And when were you planning on sleeping, buddy boy?_  
  
Sam shifted in his seat. “Dean, are you even listening to me?”  
  
Dean didn’t take his eyes off the road. “We’re going to Lawrence,” he said.  
  
Suddenly, the wheel spun in his hands and the car executed a sharp U-turn on the two-lane highway. Dean sucked in his breath, trying to grab the wheel, but the force that was controlling it was too strong. “Sammy,” he yelled. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”  
  
Sam was staring forward, his jaw clenched. “What does it look like I’m doing?”  
  
Dean felt the tangle of jangling nerves in his stomach reach up through his throat, trying to choke him. A thought flashed suddenly through his mind. “ _Christo_ ,” he said.  
  
Sam laughed. “I want to save people’s lives instead of going after some New Age mumbo-jumbo crap, as you put it, and you think I’m possessed? That’s really flattering, Dean.”  
  
“Sam, if you don’t turn this car round right now I’m going to kick your ass, I swear.”   
  
Sam flashed a look at him, and the doubts that Dean had had about who was controlling his little brother fell away. The look was stony, determined and at the same time miserable and apologetic. It was a look that was all Sam. “Try me,” he said.  
  
And Dean did try, but something held him back, some force gently but firmly pushed him back in his seat, until he could do nothing but watch the wheel turn on its own in front of him. “This is all wrong, Sam,” he said.  
  
And Sam didn’t say anything, but the look he flashed at his brother said _I know  
_.  
  
\----  
  
Nightfall found them pulling in to a motel forecourt in Fredericksville. The drive had passed in tense silence after Dean had given up trying to convince his brother to turn round. Lawrence was just as far from them as it had ever been, and felt somehow a whole lot further.  
  
Dean watched as Sam went to the check-in desk. The invisible pressure let up, and he considered his options. He could take the car and go to Lawrence on his own, but that was pretty pointless. He could try and knock Sam out, drug him maybe, but that might cause some problems if Sam had a nightmare. Or he could hope that this job went as quickly as the last one and believe the promise Sam had made that he would go to Lawrence immediately afterwards.  
  
Sam came back to the car. “Room 8,” he said quietly, his face pale and miserable.  
  
Dean got out of the car in silence and went to fetch his bags.   
  
Later Dean thought he should have just taken that opportunity to smack Sam round the head and take him away, nightmares be damned, should have just done what he thought was right just as Sam had been doing when he had taken over the wheel. But the truth was, Dean never had felt as sure about right and wrong as Sam, and most of the time that hadn’t mattered too much, but now, walking into the dark motel room in the wake of the sweet kid brother who had turned into something else, Dean didn’t even know what, he knew suddenly that this time it did matter.  
  
The knowledge came too late, though, as Dean felt the lately all-too-familiar pressure of someone’s will forcing him against the wall. It wasn’t soft and forgiving like Sam—this will didn’t care who got hurt for it to get what it wanted. He heard Sam gasp in the darkness somewhere in front of him, and then the lights flicked on and there was a man there, in the middle of the room, a perfectly ordinary-looking man with a beer-gut and thinning hair, except that his eyes were an unpleasantly familiar shade of orange and an unnatural smile tugged at the corners of his lips.  
  
“Well hello there, gentlemen,” he said.


	3. Chapter 3

_Jesus. It’s here._  
  
Dean felt a sensation in the pit of his stomach like he was falling, fast and from a great height, the ground racing to meet him and the wind roaring in his ears.  
  
In reality, of course, he was only a few inches off the ground, hanging with his back pressed against the wall of a godforsaken motel room in a town that was so not where he wanted to be, and he wasn’t going anywhere.  
  
The demon had its back to him, was concentrating on Sam, who was in a similar position on the other side of the room. Dean didn’t waste time trying to work out what was going on: whatever it was, it wasn’t good, and it needed to stop. Hoping the demon’s attention was sufficiently elsewhere, he tried to move his hand.  
  
The demon was facing him in an instant, the harsh motel room lights glinting off the surface of its eyes. It smiled in a way that made Dean want to crawl out of his skin. _OK, so you got its attention. That’s great. Maybe you can keep it away from Sam long enough_... Long enough for what? It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was buying time.  
  
“What do you want,” he forced out, though his throat felt swollen and constricted.  
  
The demon laughed, and Dean thought if he hadn’t been in quite the position he was, he would have thrown up. “What I’ve always wanted,” it said, and its voice, the voice of the man whose body it had stolen, was deep and rich and almost avuncular. “The only difference is, this time I’m going to get it.”  
  
Dean swallowed. He didn’t need to ask what it meant. “You’ll have to go through me to get to him,” he said, and that was freakin ridiculous of course because what the hell was he doing, pinned against a wall with no weapons and no chances, threatening a demon?  
  
The demon snickered again and leaned in, very close. Its breath smelled of whisky and cheap tobacco, with the barest hint of sulphur. “So predictable, you Winchester boys,” it breathed, and Dean tried to avoid looking right into those reflective orange eyes. “So very noble. It’s pathetic. I could kill you with a thought.”  
  
But it didn’t kill him, not then anyway. It seemed to have something else in mind.  
  
“Aren’t you tired of being pushed around, Dean?” it asked, still too close, its hot breath rasping across Dean’s cheeks. Dean’s view of the world was blocked by this looming face, which looked like it was probably kindly when it was not being worn by a creature from Hell. “First dear old Dad, now Sammy too,” the demon continued, sounding thoughtful. “I thought _you_ were supposed to be the one in charge, be the big brother. Seems like as soon as he gets a taste of power, he doesn’t give a shit what you think any more. Daddy would be so proud to see what a good job you’re doing of looking after your brother.”  
  
“Shut up,” Dean growled, flicking his eyes this way and that, trying to find a way to avoid the terrible face and praying that somehow this stalling was going to help Sam.  
  
The demon sucked its breath through its teeth in disapproval. “Now, now, Dean,” it said, stepping back again. “You might hurt my feelings. And then I might hurt _you_.”  
  
It eyed him for a moment, and although it was further away from him now, which was a blessed relief, it was still blocking his view of Sam, and Dean was trying to move his head to see his brother when the creature smiled its horrible smile and said, “Yes. I think I _will_ hurt you,” and raised its hand, and then Dean heard Sam yell out his name and felt something hit him with the force of a thousand nuclear bombs, and then he was falling again, actually falling this time, and when he hit the floor he just kept on falling, down, down into darkness.  
  
\----  
  
Dean awoke to the feeling of motion and the whine of a mosquito flying past his ear and landing on his face. He slapped instinctively, and regretted it immediately afterwards when the movement drew his attention to the worst freakin headache in the history of ever. It felt like a hundred tiny miners had set up shop in his brain and were prospecting with rusty pick-axes. _Give it up guys, you’re not going to find anything worth having in there._  
  
“Dean.”  
  
 _Sam_. Sam’s voice. What did that mean? Was Sam OK? He cracked an eyelid open experimentally, and, encouraged to discover that the headache didn’t get much worse, let the other one drift open too. He was in the Impala, in the passenger seat, speeding along an empty road. It was night. They were going too fast.  
  
He flicked his eyes over to the driver’s seat, careful not to let his head move. Sam glanced at him. “How do you feel?”  
  
Dean swallowed, or tried to, but his mouth was too dry and his tongue felt thick. Sam seemed to realise, and said, “It’s OK. You’re OK.”  
  
Dean wanted to ask about the demon, wanted to ask about the trails of dried blood that tracked down Sam’s skin from his nose and ears, but he couldn’t. The headache was getting worse, throbbing so loud that he was amazed Sam couldn’t hear it, and blackness was reaching up to claim him once more. He fought it, he really tried, but it was a losing battle, and somewhere far above him he heard Sam’s voice say _It’s OK, Dean. Go to sleep_ and then he sank gratefully into the waiting arms of the dark.  
  
\----  
  
The second time Dean woke up was when Sam cried out and the car lurched under him. This time there was no time for prospectors and slow beginnings: Sam was moaning in the driver’s seat, head down and hands over his face, and no-one was holding the wheel, and the windscreen was rapidly filling up with tree.  
  
Dean didn’t bother to think, he just reacted. He grabbed the wheel and pulled as hard as he could, and there was a screech of tires as the Impala swung back out into the road, into the wrong lane, and Dean cursed and readjusted the wheel and felt control flowing back to him, and gradually the situation righted itself and the adrenaline began to drain away, and they were parked at the side of the road.  
  
Dean closed his eyes, scrubbing his face with his hands and feeling the headache make its appearance, though less painful this time. _Jesus Christ_.  
  
“Sorry,” said Sam next to him, his face still hidden.  
  
Dean didn’t voice any of the many replies that came to mind. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“I just uh...” Sam grunted, removing his hands from his face, his eyes screwed tight shut. “I guess the sun came up and uh... I don’t know. The light was so _bright_.”  
  
Dean looked up at the horizon. The sun was only half up, glowing golden through a light haze.  
  
“Sam.” He reached for his brother’s face, but Sam pushed his hand away. “Sam, look at me.” He took Sam’s chin firmly in his hand and turned his brother’s head towards his own. “Open your eyes,” he said.  
  
Sam grimaced, opened one eye and then screwed it shut again immediately, his hands flying back to cover his face. “Jesus, God, Dean, it _hurts_.” Next to the car, a whole swath of grass was flattened suddenly as if a huge weight had fallen on it.  
  
Dean felt his headache crank up a notch. He should have seen this coming. Nothing ever came without a price. Sam had been given telekinesis in exchange for the possibility of killing himself or others in his sleep; he had been given other gifts too, and now it was time to pay up.  
  
“Fuck, Dean,” said Sam quietly, his voice muffled by his hands. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”  
  
\----  
  
They stopped at the next town they came to, Sam huddled under a blanket in the back seat while Dean bought the biggest, darkest pair of sunglasses he could find. It was almost laughable, really: only a couple of weeks ago, Dean had been refusing to buy just such an item, refusing it because it meant acceptance, adjusting, permanent damage, and Sam hadn’t needed them then anyway, they would have been for other people, to protect others from having to see the darkness that could claim any of them. Then, Sam’s eyes hadn’t worked at all, and Dean had felt like he would give anything for his brother to see again.  
  
He had got his wish. And that was always it, wasn’t it? _Be careful what you wish for_.  
  
The sunglasses seemed to help, and Dean suggested they lie low at a motel for the day, wait until dark. But Sam shook his head vehemently.  
  
“It’s coming for us. For me. We have to keep moving.”  
  
And now that the immediate crisis was over or at least stalled, Dean had time to notice the dried blood again. It seemed that Sam had made an effort at some point to scrub it off his skin, but red-brown particles still clung to the folds of his ears and the edges of his nostrils. And Dean asked the question that he would have asked long before, if his attention hadn’t been claimed by other matters.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Sam’s shoulders tensed, his expression unreadable with those damn glasses on. Dean had never realised how much he could work out from his brother’s eyes. “I don’t know,” Sam said quietly.   
  
“You were there. How did we escape?”  
“I, uh. I think I attacked it. It ran away.”  
  
Dean stared over at his brother in astonishment. “You’re kidding me. It _ran away_?”  
  
“Well, uh, it went away, anyway,” Sam said.  
  
Dean was quiet for a minute, thinking this over. “Jesus, Sam, what did you hit it with?”  
  
Sam shook his head slowly. “I don’t know. I just... I heard it say it was going to hurt you, and then it... and then I just _pushed_ , as hard as I could, you know? I think... maybe I blacked out or something, I don’t know, but it was gone and you were... I’m sorry, man, I think I must have hit you too.”  
  
Dean snorted, rubbing at his aching temple. _So this little sucker’s your doing, is it? Shoulda guessed._  
  
“And then I just got you in the car and floored it. I didn’t know how soon it would be back.”  
  
“How do you know it’s coming back at all?” Dean asked. “Maybe you scared it off for good. Maybe you killed it.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true.  
  
Sam shook his head again. “No. It’s coming. I can feel it.”  
  
 _Great_. Dean slapped another mosquito away. Damn bugs. He thought about asking about the people in Fredericksville that they were supposed to save, and that reminded him of Sam’s face as he had manipulated the steering wheel with his mind. That was a conversation for another time.  
  
They stopped at a gas station, and Dean called Missouri. Her voice was strained as she answered the phone.  
  
“Dean, honey, are you checking behind you?”  
  
Dean looked around the forecourt. There was nothing there. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Your brother’s broadcasting for miles. I can feel him from here. There’s more than one type of thing can’t resist an invitation like that.”  
  
“Broadcasting what?” Dean asked, feeling confused.  
  
“Power.” Missouri’s voice was flat, and Dean felt some unidentifiable emotion in his spine. “Most everything wants what he’s got, and you need to see that they don’t bleed him dry. Watch out for yourself, too, honey. I know you’re not going to leave his side, but that’s a dangerous place to be.”  
  
“Missouri,” Dean started, tired of this enigmatic conversation and wanting to say what he had phoned to say in the first place.  
  
“You can’t bring him here, Dean. It’s not safe.” There was a click on the line, and Missouri was gone.  
  
Dean stared at his phone. _Not safe_. Seemed like nowhere was safe these days. He walked back to the car, slapping at another mosquito, and then paused, turning over his hand to look at what he had killed. It lay there, dead and flat on his palm, oddly-shaped, slightly iridescent in the sunlight. Not a mosquito.  
  
Dean swallowed.   
  
Sam was still in the car, his head tipped back against the seat. He looked tired, and Dean saw several tiny shapes hovering around him.  
  
“Sam,” he said sharply, flailing his hands, trying to get them away.  
  
“What is it?” Sam pulled his head up, sounding confused.  
  
“These little bastards,” Dean said, and slapped one that had landed on Sam’s cheek.  
  
“Ow, jeez! You’re pretty free with your fists these days.”  
  
“Save it,” said Dean, and rolled up the window quickly, hoping he had got all the bugs or whatever they were. “OK,” he said, feeling a little more calm. “We got another problem.”  
  
When he had finished explaining, Sam started to laugh and didn’t stop  
  
“Oh, Jesus,” he spluttered, as Dean grew more and more frustrated. “Megalomaniacal bugs! That’s a new one.”  
  
“This is serious,” said Dean, wishing he could join in on his brother’s laughter, but feeling about as funny as a comedian in a morgue. “One of those little freaks might not be a big deal, but...”  
  
“It’s OK, Dean,” Sam said, gasping for breath, tears streaming from under his sunglasses. “I won’t let them eat you. I think we’ve got some Raid in the back.”  
  
“Need some freakin mutant Raid,” Dean muttered. A whine blew past his ear, and he breathed in sharply. “Sam...”  
  
“It’s OK, really.” Sam was still chuckling. “I got it.”  
  
And just as Dean had caught sight of the tiny creature and was moving to strike it, it started to move backwards. Dean watched in astonishment as it moved in the opposite direction it had been travelling in, until it flattened itself against the car window. “What did you do?”  
  
Sam shrugged. “I made them go away. You know, the power-hungry greenfly.” And he started laughing again.  
  
“Dude,” Dean muttered, starting the engine. “You have a really weird sense of humour.”  
  
\----  
  
Sam kept laughing for over an hour, and the sound grated on Dean’s nerves. He drove south, because he didn’t know what else to do. After thirty miles, he put the stereo on loud, despite the headache that still hadn’t faded, but he could still feel the vibrations as his brother’s shoulders shook. He tuned it out, focussing on the white lines of the road, on the thrum of the bass. Usually the driving was one of the things he enjoyed best. But usually, they were hunting, not hunted.  
  
He didn’t know how long it was before he glanced at his brother to see Sam staring forward, no longer laughing, trickles of blood oozing from his nose. Dean’s stomach lurched, and he shut off the stereo.  
  
“Sam, what happened?”  
  
“A vision,” Sam said stonily.   
  
Dean bit the inside of his lip and remembered Fredericksville again. “We can’t stop. You know that, right?”  
  
“I know,” said Sam, his features motionless.  
  
Dean turned back to the road, feeling that he should say something, but not sure what. “People die every day. We can’t save all of them.”  
  
Sam didn’t say anything for a long moment, and then he turned his face away. “You don’t have to watch it happen.”  
  
\----  
  
The hours turned into days, and Dean lost track of time. It felt like they’d always been running, following an unpredictable path, desperately trying to stay one step ahead. During the day, Dean drove, and sometimes Sam dozed fitfully under his blanket but mostly he just stared. At night, Dean would try to sleep in the passenger seat or stretched out in the back, while Sam moved the car through the darkness as if it was broad daylight.   
  
They needed a plan, Dean knew that. They couldn’t run forever, and he couldn’t let Sam be stuck in this state, reduced to hiding from the light of day, with visions, coming more and more often, doing God knew what to his brain. But the demon was strong, and it knew what Sam had now. It was prepared, and it was coming.  
  
It wasn’t the only thing that was coming, either. At some point, Dean became aware of a haze in the rear-view mirror that seemed to follow them wherever they went. As time went on, the haze grew darker, always staying the same distance behind them. After watching and wondering had gone on long enough, Dean stopped the car and stepped out, walking along the highway for maybe fifty feet before he found himself face to face with a shifting, seething cloud of iridescence that emitted a whining sound on the edge of hearing that Dean never wanted to hear again. He watched, horribly fascinated despite himself, and saw that there was a line that the bugs never crossed, like a curved ceiling or the edge of a bubble.  
  
When he got back to the car, Sam said, “I told you I would take care of it.”  
  
And Dean glanced back at the haze in the mirror. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Great.”  
  
\----  
  
It might have been the third day, or the fourth, when Sam had a vision that lasted longer than usual and when it was over he fell forward, clutching at his head.  
  
“Turn it off _turn it off_ ,” he yelled, gasping and choking, and Dean stared, because surely he couldn’t mean the stereo, it was playing so softly that Dean could hardly hear it, but it was the only thing he could think off so he snapped it off in a panic and Sam laid his head back on the seat and breathed heavily.  
  
“Loud,” he whispered.  
  
“Sam,” Dean said, and Sam winced, and outside the window there was an muffled pop and a shower of unripe sweetcorn kernels rained onto the hood. Dean stared out of the window in consternation, but the field of corn that bordered the road just stood there, innocent and ordinary.   
  
“Sam,” he tried again, trying to pitch his voice lower, and there was another pop and more flying kernels.  
  
“Loud,” choked Sam again.  
  
Dean drew a breath and spoke, barely letting his vocal cords vibrate. “Sam, are you blowing up corn?”  
  
Sam gave a soundless laugh. “Yeah, guess so,” he whispered. “Better than the tires, right?”  
  
“Dude, _corn_.”  
  
There was another pop.  
  
 _Well, if this isn’t the most ridiculous situation ever._  
  
\----  
  
They avoided towns after that, the sound of traffic and people making Sam’s face twist into expressions that Dean never wanted to see again. They followed back roads, leaving a trail of exploded corn and the occasional collapsed outbuilding or shattered tree where a truck or semi-trailer had passed them by. Dean learned how to talk without making a sound, and he learned how to listen to Sam, how to hear his whispers above the sound of the engine. He worried about that, but Sam seemed to be able to handle the low vibration of the Impala, provided he could continue making popcorn. Out loud, Dean regretted the loss of his stereo, but inside he felt the familiar feeling of losing something far more precious.  
  
Sam’s moods became more and more erratic. He tried to stay calm, and when he didn’t manage it he did at least retain enough control to turn the destructive force of his brain against things that no-one really needed. Sometimes he would laugh at nothing, laugh soundlessly for hours on end, his head tipped back, his throat moving. After one such bout, he turned to Dean and whispered _I think I might be going crazy._  
  
And Dean whispered back, _right there with you, little buddy._  
  
They never stopped in one place for long, but since the latest developments in Sam’s hearing, Dean had taken to parking the car at some distance from gas stations along the way and walking over to them with a can, collecting food and gas while Sam huddled in the passenger seat. On the way back to the car, he would try not to look at the angry, gleaming cloud that hung behind it, and wonder how the hell they had got into this situation. The gas station trips were required, needed to keep them alive and moving, but they were dangerous, Dean knew. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough.  
  
And one night, it was. One night, Dean felt a sharp blow to his head as he exited the glass door of the latest gas station somewhere in Alabama. And when he woke up, he knew that he had made the mistake that would cost him everything, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to believe it could be true, but unable to escape the image of flat orange eyes and a terrible, triumphant smile.


	4. Chapter 4

_Sam. Where was Sam?_  
  
Dean knew the demon knew he was awake, but he kept his eyes closed anyway, trying to discover as much as he could about his surroundings without alerting his captor. He was lying on a hard surface, not too cold, probably wood. He had an ache or two here and there, particularly his head, but he didn’t seem badly hurt. The brief glimpse he had had while his eyes were open had shown him a shadowy space, dim lighting blurring the edges, sparse furniture. And _it_ , of course.  
  
He listened, hard, wishing for a moment he had Sam’s super hearing before remembering just why that was a dumb thing to wish for. He could hear his own breath, easing stiffly in and out of his nose, but that was all. He tried holding it for a brief moment to see if he could hear Sam, hear anything that would give him a clue. But when he did, utter silence descended, a silence so complete that it made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.  
  
Maybe it was gone. That would explain the silence. Maybe it had never been there in the first place, maybe he was just having a nightmare or he was delirious or something. Yeah, that was it, delirious. That would explain the whole of the last three weeks, actually, the nightmarish chain of events that had started in a forest in Minnesota and seemed due to end here on a wooden floor that may or may not have been somewhere in Alabama. The more Dean thought about this idea, the more it made sense – made a hell of a lot more sense than power-sucking bugs and exploding corn, anyway. He wondered if he was getting better, or if maybe the fact that everything had been going to shit in this fictional world of his meant that he was getting worse. Maybe he was going to die. Damn, that would suck. Plus, Sam would probably be freakin pissed.  
  
“This was rather entertaining in the beginning, but you really should give it up now, you know.”  
  
Dean’s thoughts froze. The cosy picture he had been building for himself, the hot nurses leaning in to sponge off his burning forehead in some hospital where the sheets were soft and dry and Sam sat by his bed, mad as hell and angsty no doubt but still _Sam_ , crumbled into dust at the first note of that deep, full voice. He kept his eyes shut, trying to lie as still as possible, trying to think of a plan. No plan made itself known, however, and from somewhere to his left there was a heavy sigh.  
  
“Why are you even trying?”  
  
Dean didn’t really know, and so he opened his eyes.  
  
The demon was watching him from a battered sofa, its eyes brilliant in the low light. They were in a cabin, Dean realised now, just like before. It seemed fitting, somehow, fitted with the whole horror movie thing, so much more so than a clapboard house on a quiet suburban street in Kansas.  
  
He cleared his throat. “Where’s Sam?”  
  
The demon chuckled, and the chuckle sounded so _ordinary_ , so much like a man in his fifties enjoying a glass of wine and a cigar or two with friends, that it hit Dean in the gut with almost physical force, much more so than any hellish noise the thing could have made. “Ah, the fraternal concern makes its appearance already. Don’t you worry, Dean, little brother will be here soon.”  
  
Dean swallowed. _They’ve got Sam_. He tried not to picture the demon’s minions finding Sam hunched and fragile in the car, waiting for his brother to come back.  
  
The demon still looked amused. “No threats, Dean? How disappointing. I _so_ enjoyed your little show of bravado back in Kentucky.”  
  
Dean forced his mind away from visions of black-eyed minions torturing his brother to the present, and allowed his lips to curl with contempt. “Don’t think it counts as bravado if you back it up,” he said.  
  
The demon snorted. “From where I was standing, you just passed out,” he said. “Not exactly a candidate for hero of the hour.”  
  
Dean wondered if he was doing the right thing goading the creature, but at that moment it was all he could think of to do. “Yeah, but my kid brother kicked your ass. Now _that’s_ embarrassing.”  
  
It was beside him in an instant, breath tickling his ear, but he couldn’t move his head, either to look or look away. _Great plan, genius. Now it’s really pissed._  
  
It didn’t say anything, though, not for a long time, as if it knew somehow that this breathing, this blowing its sick, boozy breath into his ear _and why hadn’t the smell of whisky faded yet, when it must have been days since the man was possessed?_ was worse than anything it could have said. It kept on until Dean thought he couldn’t stand it any more, the tension that thrummed through every nerve becoming unbearable, and underneath it all the image of Sam curled in the seat of the Impala, holding his ears as fate finally caught up with him, repeated itself over and over like a sacred chant.  
  
And then it was gone, just like that. It was still in the room, of course – Dean could hear its heavy shoes on the planks of the floor – but its presence was more muted. Dean wondered what had just happened, but his mind was working slowly, processing information through a fog of sulphurous fumes, and he couldn’t quite grasp what was going on. He had made it angry, he remembered that. He had been talking about – what? _Come on, Dean, get a grip._   
  
Sam. Of course, Sam. He had said that Sam had kicked its ass, and the demon had been angry, and that had been decidedly unpleasant. Which, of course, didn’t stop him from doing it again.  
  
“You’re scared of him, aren’t you? That’s why he’s not here.”  
  
There was a hiss from somewhere out of sight, and in that moment Dean knew that his hastily-constructed jibe had hit its mark, and not only that, but that it was _true_ , which was not what he had expected at all. And a second later, another thought bubbled through the fog, and he swore softly.  
  
“You don’t even have him. You never had him.”  
  
Orange eyes appeared in his field of vision, looking down at him from above. The demon didn’t look angry. It looked _amused_. “Now I see why little brother’s the brains of the family,” it said.  
  
Dean closed his eyes, relief washing through him. It didn’t have Sam. It lied.  
  
“Of course,” said the demon conversationally, and Dean found that he could move his head again, follow its movements as it paced round the cabin, “it won’t be long now. Soon you’ll get to see little Sammy again, don’t you worry.” It stopped, leaning over him, leering. “He’s not an easy man to get hold of these days, your brother. He’s become rather... slippery.” And then it laughed like it had just heard the best joke ever. “To get to him, I have to go through you,” it said. “Wasn’t that what you said?”  
  
Dean felt cold.   
  
Bait. He was _bait_.  
  
\----  
  
“He’s not gonna come, you know.”  
  
The demon didn’t stop pacing. Dean found it kind of odd that demons paced when they were impatient, just like people. Still, this particular hellspawn had been demonstrating that very fact for quite some time now, and it was beginning to wear on Dean’s already frayed nerves. Not to mention the fact that lying on the floor paralysed into a pretty uncomfortable position was making muscles ache that he hadn’t known he had. Dean was way past scared and well into pissed off.  
  
“You hear me, Damien? I said he’s not coming. Sam has more sense than that.”  
  
The demon stopped, but didn’t look at him. Dean had hit a nerve. _Good_.  
  
Except it wasn’t good, because a moment later the thing started in on that crap again, the crap they always pulled when they had you helpless and you had no way of getting them to shut up. Honestly, sometimes he thought that demons seemed to be more keen on talking about feelings than even Sam. And it was just as annoying.  
  
“You do realise it’s him, don’t you?” the demon was asking, its eyes flat in the gathering gloom. Dean didn’t know how long he had been lying on the floor, but daylight had come and now it was on the way out again, so it must have been a while. He wondered what Sam was doing.   
  
The demon didn’t seem to care that he hadn’t responded. “It’s always been him. If it hadn’t been for him, you wouldn’t be here. You would have had a normal life, a normal childhood, a mommy and a daddy and maybe even another little brother to satisfy your deep-seated need to protect something. Hell,” the demon snorted, “you might even have been married by now with kids of your own.”  
  
“Yeah, sounds great,” Dean said. “Just what I always wanted.”  
  
“But that’s the problem, isn’t it,” the demon hissed, and it was watching him closely now, standing still, so still that it didn’t even seem to be breathing. “It is what you’ve always wanted.” It grinned as Dean’s eyes flicked over involuntarily. “Oh, of course, you’d never tell anyone, especially not _him_. Especially not since he was the one who took it away from you.”  
  
“No,” Dean said, wondering why he was even engaging in this conversation. “It wasn’t him, it was you. You took it.”  
  
The demon giggled, a high-pitched noise that scraped across Dean’s ears. “I know you like to tell yourself that, but deep down you know I’m right. You know it. I know it. And you can be sure as hell little Sammy knows it too. He’s always known it. Such a _clever_ child.”  
  
“Don’t you say his name,” Dean warned, feeling suddenly at the end of his rope.  
  
“What’re you gonna do, tough guy?” the demon sniggered, and then it was right up against Dean’s face, and Dean could feel the sulphur beginning to fog up his senses again. “You know,” it said, as if a thought was occurring to it for the first time, “I think little _Sammy_ might do anything to absolve himself of that guilt. I think he might do anything to save _you_.”  
  
Dean swallowed. Holy crap. “You don’t seriously think he’s just gonna hand himself over to you?”  
  
He felt a hand graze his cheek, and his skin crawled. “Why not, Dean? You _know_ he’d die for you. Do you truly believe he’d live for you?”  
  
Dean shuddered out a laugh. “You think you know us so well, but you don’t know a damn thing. Sam would never give you anything. _Anything_.” But he remembered the arguments they’d had, the ones in which he’d called Sam _selfish_ because he was always so keen on getting himself killed for that damned demon. The same demon that was watching him now from the corner with the fires of hell in its glowing eyes.  
  
Dean closed his eyes. This was a bad situation, he knew, but there had to be a way of getting out of it. He knew Sam wasn’t coming, because although the demon kept saying that Sam was _strong_ , Dean knew that his brother was a mess. He knew that Sam wasn’t coming because no way would Sam be that stupid. He knew that Sam wasn’t coming because if he did, he would probably end up getting killed, and there was no way that could happen. So he knew that Sam wasn’t coming.  
  
That meant he had to get out of this by himself.  
  
Problem was, he’d been racking his brains for a plan for however long it was that he’d been stuck on this goddamn floor, and so far he’d come up with zip. And somewhere at the back of his brain, some mutinous part of himself thought that maybe Sam was coming, that maybe he was holed up somewhere in a darkened motel room right now, preparing to just come in without a fight.  
  
No way in hell was _that_ gonna happen.  
  
Dean had one option left, and it pretty much sucked. Well, sometimes that was just how things went.  
  
“You know,” he started, “that daughter of yours, she was a real hotty. Shame she was a hell bitch.”  
  
He had the demon’s attention, all of it, very suddenly. Dean felt like an ant squirming under a magnifying glass. Still, this was good, right? This was the plan, and no matter how bad a plan it was, it was still better than no plan at all.  
  
“Shame I had to have her put down,” he continued, wondering if his voice was trembling. He didn’t think it was, because now that he had made up his mind what needed to be done, he was feeling oddly firm. “Or no, actually, it’s not really a shame, is it? Cos _damn_ , it was _fun_.”  
  
The demon quirked an eyebrow, and Dean felt a wrenching pain in his guts. _Fuck. No, OK, OK_. This was the plan. It was all going to plan.   
  
He tried for a smile, though it was probably more of a grimace. “She had a lot of fight in her, huh? Took her a while to-” Dean was cut off by more pain, blinding, in his head this time, and his determination wavered for just a moment, because he didn’t want to die. But if he didn’t, then Sam would, or worse, and Dean, who had spent his whole life protecting Sam, was not about to be the cause of his little brother’s death. He coughed, trying not to taste the blood in his mouth, and opened his mouth to deliver another line, hoping to God this could be the last one because if he was going to die, whoever it was who was in charge of these things could at least have the decency to make it quick.  
  
That was when every window in the place burst inwards with a sound like crunching ice, showering glass over everything, and the door splintered and cracked, hanging off its hinges like it had been hit like a truck. And Dean’s words froze in his throat, because there, standing in the doorway looking like he was about to die, was _Sam_.  
  
The next thing Dean knew, he was sliding across the floor and up the wall, until he was hanging a few inches off the ground. He had been here before. But never like _this_.  
  
The demon licked its lips and smiled. “Why hello there, Sammy,” it said, the name sounding grotesque in its mouth. “How nice of you to join us. Your brother and I were just having a little chat.” And it flicked its hand towards Dean, and Dean felt the pain start again and wondered if he really was going to die now and all for nothing, and then Sam flung him a furious glance and the pain stopped, and he heard his brother say _don’t you ever touch him again_.  
  
If Dean hadn’t known what he knew about demons, he would have thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty on the creature’s face. But he did know, and all he saw were hungry eyes and teeth that seemed too sharp.   
  
“Temper, temper,” it said. “Not one of your more appealing characteristics.” Behind it, the glass of a picture frame shivered into pieces, and that just seemed to amuse the demon more, if anything.  
  
“Cheap tricks, boy,” it said. “That power wasn’t meant for you. You can’t even wield it, let alone control it.” It sniggered and cast a glance at Dean. “You think it impresses me that you can keep me from him? It won’t last long. That weak human brain of yours just isn’t built for it. I mean, just look at yourself. It’s pathetic.”  
  
Dean shot a glance at his brother, taking in the sight properly now. Sam’s face was pale and set, and against that pallor the blood that flowed from his nose and ears was an almost attractive deep, rich red. His shirt collar and chest were stained enough for Dean to know that it wasn’t the first blood, either. The demon took a step closer, and Sam raised his hand, a vein throbbing on his forehead, his jaw clenched.  
  
“You want to save your brother,” it said, watching Sam, predatory. “I can understand that. You can, you know. Just not like this.”  
  
Sam grunted and didn’t say anything. Dean became aware that the air around his body was heating up, as if it was charged with electricity, as two wills fought for dominance.  
  
“It would be so easy,” the demon said, taking another step and crooning gently. “All you need to do is give me what’s mine. I know you don’t want it, so why try to hold on to it? If you just let it go, then all this could be over, and I promise you, Dean would live.”  
  
Dean tried to shift, but although the pain was gone, the force that held him in place was still very much present. “Sammy,” he said, his voice low, “don’t listen to him.”  
  
“Come on,” said the demon, and Dean knew that that deep, persuasive voice was going to haunt him in his dreams for the rest of his life. Which, fair enough, might only be a few minutes, but still. “This is how you can atone. You can atone, and you can rest.”  
  
“Don’t listen,” said Dean again. _Don’t listen, don’t listen_. And what if Sam did listen? What then?  
  
Sam was very still, leaning forward as if fighting against a strong wind, and Dean saw that the hairs on his head were rising slightly, like there was a build-up of static. He looked the demon square in the eye, and Dean felt his stomach lurch. _Don’t say yes, Sammy. God, don’t say yes._  
  
But Sam didn’t say yes. What Sam said, in a voice that was completely devoid of emotion, was _you killed my mother._  
  
The demon took a step back, confused.  
  
Then everything was sound and light, the sound almost beyond sound, filling Dean’s ears like nothing he had ever heard, and the light blinding, shrieking, emanating somehow from Sam. And there were other noises too, the cracking and rending of tearing wood, and a howling that made the hairs on his spine rise instantly to attention, a noise that he couldn’t even imagine, even as it was happening. _Sam_ , he whispered.   
  
And then the force that was holding him abruptly let him go, and he dropped the short distance to the floor with a thud that jarred whatever it was inside him that the demon had damaged, and he sucked in his breath and saw stars superimposed on the nimbus of brightness surrounding his brother and the demon.   
  
The next thing he knew, he was racing forward, because he may not know what was going on, and the whole thing might be a whole swimming pool full of freakshow, but damned if he was going to let his little brother fight off a demon on his own. Except, as it turned out, he was, because the moment he got within ten feet of Sam he felt an invisible wall smack him in the face with all the physicality of the real thing.  
  
Sam was standing ramrod-straight, his legs apart, arms opened wide, and normally Dean would have laughed at that posture, it was so dramatic, so over-the-top, but the light seemed to be coming from _inside_ his brother, leaking from his skin like sweat, except leaking wasn’t really the word because there was too much of it for that, _pouring_ maybe, Dean thought the word _torrent_ might be appropriate but couldn’t quite work out how to fit it into a sentence, which, really, who cares about grammar when you’re fighting evil from hell and your kid brother’s just gone nuclear?  
  
The demon was still howling, down on its knees, but now Sam was sinking too, sinking to the ground amidst the haze of thrumming light, and the blood was gushing now, pouring from his nostrils and his ears and his eyes too now oh God his eyes and Dean knew through the pounding in his head, knew with the same certainty that he knew the world was round and his mom was beautiful, that they were not going to win this one, that there was nothing he could do, that he had failed. He hurled himself against the wall again and stayed there, pressed against it, watching the end of the world.  
  
And it was at that moment that the demon fell to the ground with a thud, and the sound and light drained away like water through the cracks in the floorboards, and Sam made a small noise, slumped forward, and lay still.  
  
Then Dean noticed that the house was on fire.


	5. Chapter 5

  
It always came back to this: fire and the demon and Sam. The memory of smoke was almost more overpowering than the smoke itself as Dean stumbled forward, the memory of screams—his father’s, Sam’s—were louder in his mind than the real ones he uttered, and perhaps that was no surprise, because after the noise that had been more than noise, he couldn’t really hear much any more.  
  
He didn’t know how long the house had been burning when he grabbed Sam under the arms and began to drag him across the floor. The walls were well under way, and it felt strange, incongruous, that the fire seemed to have started with them and not on the ceiling.   
  
The hungry flames looked oddly washed out and dull. Glass crunched beneath his feet at every step, and it was slow, painfully slow, because every time he pulled at his brother, managed to move him another inch or two across the floor, something in him felt like it was tearing just a little more. He remembered how, when he was a kid, he would imagine bursting into burning rooms and flinging children ( _mothers_ ) over his shoulder, carrying them to safety to the cheers of the crowd. _Yeah, some fireman you turned out to be._  
  
The door was the only place that wasn’t burning. That was because the door wasn’t even there any more, it had been reduced to dust at some point during the fight, and now there was only a black oblong licked by flames. Dean aimed for it as best he could, though the smoke was making his eyes water and it was hard to see.  
  
And then he was outside. Dean didn’t really know how he had got there, because when he had been inside it had seemed like an impossible task, just another step towards failure. But there he was, lying on the ground a little distance from the burning cabin, and he was surprised to see that it was still dark, as though the preceding events had taken only an hour or two, and not the several weeks that he knew must have passed. He lay on his back, taking deep gulps of air and wondering why the stars seemed to be flashing an iridescent green.  
  
It was only after this thought had been meandering through his brain for a while that it connected with something else and he sat up sharply, ignoring the burning in his guts. _Sam. Where was Sam?_  
  
It was ten seconds, the longest ten seconds of Dean’s life, before he found his brother, a dark huddle a few feet away, looking more like a bundle of rags than a living, breathing human being. But Sam _was_ breathing, and Dean dropped to sit on the ground beside him, dizzy with smoke and sulphur and relief. Sam’s face was dark with dried and drying blood, and the light that had suffused it was gone as if it had never been there. But when he opened his eyes, Dean knew that this was just an illusion, because the light was still there, somewhere inside Sam, not the warm light of Sam himself, but something harsh, too bright, sharp at the edges.   
  
_Dean. Are you OK?_  
  
Dean started, looking around sharply. It was Sam’s voice, but his brother’s lips hadn’t moved. He looked back to see those bright eyes watching him carefully. He cleared his throat, his voice rasping with smoke. “Uh, Sam? Did you hear that?”  
  
Sam grimaced slightly. _Don’t talk out loud. It hurts my ears._  
  
Dean recoiled before he could stop himself. “Jesus, Sammy!” But Sam’s wince pulled him back: there was no time to be thrown off now. Dean swallowed, then tried tentatively.   
  
_Dude. You can read my freakin mind?_  
  
Sam smiled tiredly. _Only coherent thoughts. I won’t—I can’t read anything you don’t want me to._  
  
Oh. Dean thought about this. He remembered the confrontation in the cabin, tried to remember if he had actually seen Sam speak, or just heard him. _You OK?_  
  
 _Been better._ Sam sat up slowly, grasping the arm that Dean held out to help him. _I’ll live. And you?_  
  
Dean shook his head, about to answer out loud and stopping himself just in time. _Take more than one crappy demon to slow me down._ It was strange how normal this felt, this communication. As if they were discussing the weather at a pavement café in Normal, USA, not communicating psychically somewhere too close to hell itself. He glanced back at the cabin, still burning fiercely. _Is it dead?_  
  
A shadow crossed Sam’s face. _No. I hurt it, but I couldn’t kill it._  
  
 _Did it leave that guy’s body?  
  
I don’t know. Maybe._  
  
Dean looked at the cabin again, wondering if he should try and go back in, try and save the portly, middle-aged man who looked like an accountant and probably had a family somewhere. He felt Sam’s hand on his arm.  
  
 _He’s dead already. It doesn’t matter._  
  
Dean felt suddenly cold. It always mattered to Sam. No matter how much they had tried to help, no matter what the impossible obstacles in their path, if they failed to save someone, it mattered to Sam. They had escaped, they had survived, they had even temporarily beaten the thing that had shaped both their lives for the last twenty-two years. And it hadn’t solved any of their problems.  
  
\----  
  
 _We need to get you to a hospital._  
  
Sam was standing, watching the darkness as the flames burned out behind him, and he turned in surprise at the sound of his brother’s voice. Or thought. Whatever.  
  
 _What for?_  
  
Dean snorted, which was kind of weird. He didn’t think he’d ever psychically snorted before. _Dude. You’re a mess. Check a mirror lately?_  
  
Sam put his hand thoughtfully to his face, fingering the crusted blood that filled his ears. _It’s stopped bleeding now. Actually, it kind of helps._ He shrugged. _Blocks out the noise a little. You should go though. It hurt you._  
  
It wasn’t a question, but Dean was pretty sure Sam didn’t need to read his mind to work out that his protestations of health were all lies.  
  
 _OK, then. I’ll go. You come with me._   
  
Surprise again. _What for?_ And if Dean was under any illusion that his brother was just slightly off because of the craziness of the past few hours, it was gone. This was worse than before, worse than Fredericksville, because this time Sam didn’t even seem to realise that he was doing it.  
  
Dean gritted his teeth, thought about asking Sam to hold his hand, spinning him some sob story about being scared. Wondering if he was so far gone that he would accept it. But maybe he would just say no anyway.  
  
Better the truth, for now at least. _We need to hide, Sam. It could come back here._  
  
Sam was watching him curiously, as if he was some kind of science project. _It will. It can feel me, just like I can feel it. We can’t hide. We can only run—or fight._  
  
 _Fight?_ Dean’s thought was loud in his head. _You just blasted everything you had at that thing and the fucker still didn’t die. What are you gonna do, throw freakin corn cobs at it?_  
  
Sam was crouching now, holding Dean’s gaze where he sat on the hard ground. The light in his eyes seemed to have grown brighter in the short time since Dean had dragged him from the cabin.  
  
 _I’m getting stronger all the time. I can feel power flowing into me. Soon I’ll be stronger than it. Then it can be over._  
  
Dean reached out and touched Sam’s cheek, touched the streaked black blood. _It’s killing you, genius. Ever think of that?_  
  
Sam shrugged. _It doesn’t hurt._  
  
Dean felt anger rise in him. _You know what else can stop a person from dying even when their goddamn brain leaks out of their ears? Demonic possession._  
  
Sam didn’t look hurt, didn’t really look like anything at all. Dean wondered if he had even heard him. _Maybe it’s supposed to be this way, Dean. Did you ever consider that? Maybe I’m supposed to be a weapon. That’s why all this was given to me._  
  
 _No_ , Dean’s mind snapped, and somewhere in the back of it a voice that he hoped Sam couldn’t hear said _you’re not a weapon, you’re my brother. I pulled you from the fire three times. That means I get to keep you._  
  
 _Don’t you see, Dean?_ Sam’s voice in his mind was soothing, persuasive, and it grated on Dean like ground glass. _This could be our chance. It could be over. Dad could stop hunting. You could have a life, a real one. You wouldn’t need to be alone any more._  
  
And Dean was speechless, because those words were just so damn _Sam_ , it was so like him to be so compassionate and yet so totally blind. _Not alone any more_. Of all the moronic things...  
  
But Sam was turning away from him now, and the moment of recognition, of sheer _Sam_ , was over. _It started with me_ , said the voice in his mind, all traces of softness gone from it now. _It has to end with me too. I hope you can understand that._  
  
Dean stumbled to his feet, watching his brother’s back silhouetted against the last of the fire. _Yeah, I understand_ , he thought, and realised that Sam really wasn’t reading his mind as he brought a rock down hard on the back of his brother’s head.  
  
\----  
  
It took him two days to drive to Lawrence, which was a hell of a lot longer than it should have taken, but Dean had to admit that he wasn’t in great shape. He had broken into a hospital supply cupboard back in Birmingham, looking for something stronger than the painkillers in their field first aid kit, something that would take the edge off his own pain and something that would keep Sam unconscious. Not asleep, but unconscious, because Dean hoped that that would stop the nightmares from coming.  
  
He hadn’t stopped at motels along the way. It wouldn’t look good, hauling his brother’s limp body around. People might ask questions. Especially when they noticed the bugs. So he had caught broken sleep by the side of the road in places so obscure that no-one would care, sleep that hit him like a sucker punch but that he kept at bay as much as he could, wanting to be alert for the slightest sound of his brother waking up.  
  
Sam did wake up, once, when the fog of drugs and unpleasant thoughts in Dean’s brain was so thick that he couldn’t remember when he had last dosed him with sedative. He remembered thinking about it, trying to grasp the memory as it slipped away. _Things to do: wash car, buy groceries, drug brother to eyeballs to stop him destroying himself and possibly the entire world in an insane psychic vendetta_. Sam’s eyes had been half-lidded, disoriented, and his voice in Dean’s mind had been thick with confusion. _Dean, what...?_  
  
He didn’t get any further than that before Dean was sliding in the needle, pushing down the plunger. Sam’s eyes opened wide, and for a moment Dean felt a bone-breaking pressure on his sternum, forcing him back into his seat. Then Sam’s eyes slid closed, and the feeling was gone.  
  
The insects were closer when he pulled into Lawrence at five o’clock in the morning, but somehow Sam was still holding them off. They whined angrily over the house as Missouri rose from the verandah where she had been waiting possibly all night. She didn’t ask him why he had come, didn’t remind him of her words on the phone. In fact, she didn’t speak at all, which made Dean feel both disappointed and relieved—it was two days since he’d spoken a word, and he wondered if he even knew how any more. _Sam’s gonna be so pissed he missed me shutting up for once._  
  
Between them, they manhandled Sam out of the car and dragged him up to the house. The silence lasted until they had him laid out on the sofa, his chest rising and falling evenly. Then Missouri turned her gaze on Dean.  
  
“Dean Winchester, Lord only knows what your father would say.”  
  
Dean felt his legs collapse under him, and he sank into a chair. He coughed a couple of times, trying to get his voice in working order. “My father’s not here.”  
  
Missouri’s face softened. “He’s worried about you,” she said. “He wanted to find you, but he didn’t want to risk drawing it to you. Not that that matters,” she added with a rueful glance at the sofa. “That brother of yours is calling for it loud as you please, even now.”  
  
Dean looked over at his brother. He didn’t look like he was calling anyone, doing anything. On the other hand, he didn’t look like he was keeping a psychic H-bomb in his head, either.  
  
Missouri was watching him. “You need to rest, honey,” she said. “You been working so hard.”  
  
Dean shook his head. “I need your help. I need to get this thing out of him before it finds us again.”  
  
“Oh, Dean,” Missouri said, taking her hand in his, and the warmth of human contact made the backs of Dean’s eyes prickle. “You can’t take it from him. It’s part of him. It is him.”  
  
“No,” said Dean, very quietly. “Not all of it.”  
  
Missouri blinked, then looked over at Sam. He looked fragile, lying there, the dried blood still clinging to his skin. She looked back, and Dean saw fear in her eyes.   
  
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, you poor boys.”  
  
“Will you help me?” Dean asked.  
  
“I don’t know if I can,” Missouri said.  
  
“You can,” said Dean, but he wasn’t looking at her or even at Sam.  
  
He was looking out of the window.  
  
\----  
  
They chose a pasture a few miles outside the Lawrence city limits. There were no buildings there, no trees, and only the occasional car passing on the narrow road. The grass was wet, probably too wet to catch fire easily, Dean thought as he laid down a ring of salt.  
  
It had been easy, in the end. He hadn’t been sure he would find what he was looking for, but it was there, a tiny charm against creatures of the night, printed on thin, yellowing paper in a book that Missouri had found in her loft. _Don’t get much call for this one, she had said. It can’t fight off no werewolves or kill no spirits. But it should be enough for this._  
  
She was sitting now watching him, her own ring of salt pale in the last light of the setting sun. Between them, Sam lay unmoving on the grass, his breath condensing in the still air, and Dean was forcibly reminded of the woods of Minnesota on a night that seemed like an age ago. Above them, the dense, flashing cloud of insects whined on the edge of hearing, and God what Dean wouldn’t do for some mutant Raid right about now.  
  
“Are you ready?” Missouri asked, and Dean nodded slowly, holding the fragile paper between fingers that might have been trembling. The old psychic closed her eyes, frowning deeply. Dean waited.  
  
They sat there long enough for dusk to turn into night, and Dean began to think that it wasn’t going to work. He had one more dose of sedative left, and although he knew he could always break back in to the hospital in Lawrence, he knew, too, that he couldn’t keep his brother unconscious forever. He had had a purpose coming here, and as bad as things had got, he had felt _useful_. He didn’t know what he would do if it didn’t work.  
  
Then Sam stirred and opened his eyes. He sat up, looking surprised, confused, looking around until he saw Dean.  
  
 _Dean. What did you do?  
  
I’m taking care of it, Sam. _  
  
Sam’s eyes narrowed. _You said you understood._  
  
Dean let a sigh gust through his mind. _I do understand, Sammy. I understand that you’re not thinking straight right now. That’s OK, it’s been kind of a crappy month. You’ve just got to let me take care of it._  
  
Sam got to his feet and lifted his eyebrows, and Dean felt all his limbs suddenly become too heavy to move. He dropped the yellowing page that held the charm onto the grass and couldn’t make himself pick it up again.  
  
 _Sam Winchester, you stop that right now._  
  
Sam looked around, seeing Missouri for the first time. _Oh, what is this, an intervention?_  
  
Dean shook off the surprise at being able to hear Missouri’s voice in his head as well as Sam’s. _Sam, stop being a whiny bitch. We’re trying to help you._  
  
Sam turned on him, his eyes flashing, and Dean felt the pressure on his limbs intensify. _I just need you to let go_ , he thought desperately. _Please, just let go._  
  
Sam’s voice in his head was cold. _You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? You don’t know a thing. You don’t know._ Sweat was breaking out on his forehead, and Dean felt his fists clench, felt the nails break through his skin.  
  
 _Sam, don’t make me force you._  
  
Sam’s laughter in his head was high-pitched, shrill. _You think you can force me? How? With one worn-out psychic and a carton of salt? You..._ he paused, wiping his hand over his face. _What did you do?_  
  
Dean swallowed. He hadn’t known if it would work, and God knew he hadn’t wanted to try his luck. A day of research on the internet, a quick trip to the hospital, and then waiting for Sam to get the sedative mostly out of his system because Jesus this was a mess and mixing drugs that he really didn’t know anything about was just the perfect way to make it all worse. He had almost hoped it wouldn’t work, because really, suppressing his little brother’s brain activity on a chilly evening outside Lawrence had never exactly figured highly in his long-term plans.  
  
Yet here Sam was, sinking to his knees on the wet grass and giving him a look that suddenly was only Sam, a look of fear and sadness and _Dean, what did you_ do _?_ But Dean didn’t answer, because he didn’t know yet what he had done.  
  
And then the whining began to grow louder, pressing against his eardrums, acutely uncomfortable. He looked up to see the cloud of bugs closer now, boiling and seething, expanding and contracting like flames. _Why is it always freakin fire?_ It was time.  
  
He clenched his teeth, feeling the pressure rise from him and snatching the charm back up from where it lay, forcing himself to watch Sam, his fingers twitching so hard that he thought the paper might rip. They settled on him, the little bastards, first just one, almost too small to see, then several, and then he couldn’t even see Sam, could only see a mass of darkness flashing green in the beam of the flashlight, and he felt his gorge rise because that was his _brother_ under there, that was _Sam_ , and he was the one who had brought him here. Sweat broke out on his brow, and he concentrated on not moving, on not breaking the circle. He raised his eyes to meet Missouri’s, pleading wordlessly, but she only shook her head with a look of infinite sadness.  
  
The whining was making all the hair on Dean’s body stand on end. He felt disjointed, lost in a swirl of tiny wings and greedy mandibles, even though they couldn’t touch him, couldn’t cross the salt. He wondered if this was what it was like for Sam. If Sam could even feel this. If Sam was even in there any more.  
  
And then, as if she knew that he couldn’t hold out for one more moment, Missouri nodded her head. Dean had gabbled through the unfamiliar words of the charm before he even knew it, tripping over the pronunciation, and when he had finished, he started again, and kept on reading it, again and again, the words tumbling out of him, staring at the paper so hard his eyes began to blur, but that was OK because the words were seared on his memory now, right beside the image of his brother sinking under a dark cloud of hungry bugs, so he kept repeating it until he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Missouri standing there.  
  
“Dean, honey,” she said. “It’s over.”  
  
\----  
  
They didn’t know if it had worked. The charm, of course, had worked like... well, a charm, despite Dean’s misgivings. He had tried to understand, tried to work out how something so slight, so fragile, could drive away a plague of locusts. _It doesn’t matter how many there are_ , Missouri had said. _It’s a charm against the small evils of life. And they’re small._ Eventually, Dean had shrugged, not caring how it worked as long as it worked.  
  
Missouri said the fact that the insects hadn’t come back meant it must have worked. She said she couldn’t hear Sam calling any more, and Dean tried to persuade himself that that meant it had gone OK, but somewhere in the back of his mind he became more and more convinced that it just meant that _Sam wasn’t in there any more_.  
  
The hospital was too quiet. Dean had been there years before: once when he was born, though of course he didn’t remember that, once when Sammy was born, and once when mom... He pushed that thought down, but all the same he couldn’t stop himself from staring at all the older doctors and orderlies, wondering if they remembered the night twenty-three years earlier when a broken man had stumbled in with his two motherless sons. He didn’t want to think about the hospital, didn’t want to think about anything, really, but there was nothing else to do because it was so damn _quiet_ , and Dean realised after a while that it had been quiet for longer than that, too, quiet ever since that explosion of heat and light and din somewhere in Alabama. Sam had been unconscious since that night, and Dean wasn’t sure he himself had had a single clear thought in all the quiet torture that had followed.  
  
After the doctors had pronounced that his internal injuries were serious but fixable, they had tried to persuade him to stay in his own room, in his own bed. They had given that up when it became clear that he would do more harm to himself if they made him stay than if they let him go. They had set up a bed for him in Sam’s room, but Dean preferred to sit, trying to sort through the jumble of his thoughts, made more confusing by the painkillers that he had at first refused to take because he wanted to be lucid when Sam woke up ( _if Sam woke up_ ), but had eventually given in to because his headache might be doing a lot of things to him but it sure as hell wasn’t making him lucid. The doctors or whoever they were came by sometimes, checking on Sam, checking on him, shooting him looks that were curious or resentful or nervous or sympathetic. Dean ignored them all.  
  
And then there was Sam. Three days since that night in a field outside Lawrence, three days of _hospital_ and _quiet_ and _MRI results_ and _we won’t know until he wakes up_ and _goddamnit Sam, are you still in there?_ And all he had for company was his own thoughts, thoughts that stalked each other through his mind, circling warily, playing a psychotic game of cat and mouse where each pounce was worse than the last.  
  
 _If I hadn’t been so stupid it might not have caught me.  
  
If I had got him to Lawrence earlier, it might never have found us.  
  
If I hadn’t killed the thing in Fremont, there might have been a solution.  
  
If I hadn’t lost him in the woods in the first place..._  
  
And always, bubbling under, Sam’s accusing voice. _If you had let me kill the demon, it would all be over by now._  
  
Dean sighed and closed his eyes, leaning forward to rest his head on his forearms on the edge of Sam’s bed. Maybe it was over anyway.  
  
\----  
  
Dean’s greatest fear, besides Sam not waking up at all or waking up _wrong_ , was what he would say when ( _if_ ) he did wake up. He imagined the moment in his head hundreds of times, and always it left him with a dark sense of shame. Would Sam be betrayed because Dean took his powers from him without his consent? Would he be disappointed because Dean had failed to protect him better? Or would he be angry because Dean had screwed up the only shot they might ever have at killing the demon?  
  
But in the event, what Sam said was _I’m sorry_.  
  
Dean wasn’t even sure he had heard it. In fact, he was pretty sure he hadn’t, because for one thing he was asleep, for another Sam didn’t have a damn thing to be sorry about, and oh yeah, let’s not forget, his brother was in a freakin coma.   
  
Then Sam said it again, and Dean was awake and staring. For a long moment, he looked into Sam’s eyes, trying to see if that brittle light was still there. But he couldn’t tell, and he knew he should say something, something to break the silence of five days or however many it had been now, but his throat felt raw and unable to cope.  
  
“Dean?” Sam asked. “Are you OK? Did you hear me?”  
  
And Dean looked away, sure now that he had heard the voice with his ears and not his mind, and cleared his throat. “Jesus, Sammy. You look like crap.”  
  
Sam sighed and sank back on the pillows. Dean steeled himself, waiting for the inevitable, wondering if Sam would leave him again now, and knowing he wouldn’t blame him if he did.  
  
“Everything was so clear,” said Sam, his voice sounding somehow disconnected. “I could feel everything, how it all fit together. See it all, you know?” He turned his face away from Dean, and Dean swallowed. “I don’t... It didn’t seem like individual people were important, not in the grand scheme. There was just so much power, it was like there wasn’t any room for me any more. I just knew what I was doing was _right_. Dean, I’m so sorry, man.”  
  
Realisation flooded through Dean’s confused mind. Sam was trying to apologise. _Sam_ was trying to apologise. “Sam, don’t,” he started, but Sam lifted his hand weakly.  
  
“I want to,” he said. “I need to.”  
  
But then it seemed like he had lost the will to continue his train of thought, and Dean was glad because he didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to remember it, and he sure as hell didn’t need to forgive his brother anything.  
  
\----  
  
Sam was different. It wasn’t major, just a few little things. He didn’t remember a childhood incident that they had joked about just a few weeks before. He had trouble with words for simple things like _water_ and _gun_. Sometimes he said things that didn’t make any sense and then stared at Dean like he expected him to understand.  
  
Of course, that last one was nothing new.  
  
The doctors said it was normal after an injury of such severity combined with drug use sliding dangerously close to an overdose, and in fact seemed amazed that there wasn’t more damage. Dean thanked them, pocketed the pills and the counselling and rehabilitation flyers they gave him and got Sam out of that damn hospital as soon as they said he was ready to go.  
  
Sam was different, but really Sam was the same.  
  
They spent some time in the mountains, recuperating. They borrowed a cabin that seemed to be empty, because for some twisted reason it made Dean feel safe. To begin with, he had to help Sam remember how to do the oddest things, like switching on the light or loading a shotgun. After a while, though, Sam seemed to grow stronger, and to remember, some of it, at least.  
  
One night, Sam turned that worried look of his on Dean and said _do you think I’ll still have visions?_  
  
But what Dean heard was _do you think that thing’s still inside me?_  
  
And Dean answered _I don’t know, Sam, we’ll have to wait and see._  
  
But what he meant was _I freakin hope not._  
  
\----  
  
Dean didn’t know what day it was when he woke up to find Sam packing. He wasn’t even sure he knew what month it was, though it was snowing outside so that ought to narrow it down a bit. What he was sure of was that the moment had finally come, and Sam had decided to leave. He stood in the doorway of the cabin and stared.  
  
Sam didn’t look at him. “I’m sick of this place,” he said. “I packed your stuff already.”  
  
Dean felt his mouth open and close soundlessly, and wondered if he’d imagined it. But no, there was his duffel, neatly packed, his clothes freakin _folded_ , which might have been considered torture if they hadn’t been inanimate objects. “Where are we going?”  
  
“Away,” Sam said.   
  
Dean fingered his bag. “Sam,” he said, and his tone was so serious that Sam looked up, worried.  
  
“What?” he asked softly.  
  
“When you packed my bag... did you go through my underwear?”  
  
Sam’s mouth snapped shut. “Yeah, with a ten foot pole.”  
  
Dean grinned. “I always knew you were weird, geek-boy, but I never even heard of a wooden pole/brother’s underwear fetish before today.”  
  
“Shut up,” said Sam.  
  
And Dean knew they were OK.


End file.
